The Greater of Two Evils
by Ihsan997
Summary: For millennia, Diabolikos has been a subject of mockery among his fellow nathrezim due to his incompetence as a Legion commander. But when he's case into the Great Dark, he's discovered by a primordial evil...for a dreadlord, such an evil might be his second chance. A bit of musing about Old God and Void lore. 5 chapters.
1. Late Defeat

**A/N: big thanks to Coincidenceless, whose stories and fascinating PM conversations have provided much inspiration for this stort story, though I don't think he realized it. This is partially based on logical theorizing combined with Blizzard's sometimes contradictory lore. This story here isn't leading in to some sort of epic battle so much as it's simply meant to be a thought provoking beginning.**

 **Some characters, such as Melas and Decarabia, as well as the entire opening scene, are snippets from other stories in my continuum. You do NOT need to read anything else of mine for this one to make sense, though; all that matters is contained in the narrative here. Enjoy!**

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Diabolkos groaned as Melas' claw gauntlets slipped into the gap between his hauberk and backplate, the dreadlord's chest being skewered in the process. The blades of the bear druid's gauntlet sliced Diabolikos' pectoral muscle horizontally, severing it and causing his elbow to drop to his side. For the first time in the omega ranking dreadlord's tens of thousands of years of existence, something worked its way into his vastly intelligent mind - something that his pride has blinded his intelligence to.

As he felt himself knocked back yet again, this time by Melas' elven form, he felt _fear_. He, one of the nathrezim, a being who lived to terrorize others, was afraid.

The night elf grunted, shoving Diabolikos backward even further across the clearing. Hot, searing pain ate into all the cuts on the dreadlord's body, bleeding his fel blood even faster than his vampiric aura could heal them. Torn to shreds, his tattered wings proved useless as he sought a path of escape, cursing his own arrogant foray into melee combat. If only the violet skinned mortal hadn't destroyed _both_ summoned infernals; if only the man's mutt of a son hadn't realized that his own nightmares, caused by Diabolikos, weren't natural; if only the beholders providing ranged support hadn't teleported away in terror; if only, if only if only.

Clutching each other and watching their protector dismantle the devastated dreadlord, Melas' tusked mate and son were taken by none of the fear that Diabolikos had initially managed to weave into their minds. How had that failure of a druid learned to shift into bear form? After all those millennia of stagnation?

That half a second of hesitation was all his opponent needed. Via his peripheral vision, Diabolikos saw the second claw gauntlet sailing right for his face. He tried to raise his arm to defend, flexing his deltoid to bring his hand up but forgetting that he couldn't move it sideways to defend his front due to the scrunching up of the two separate halves of his left pectoral. That excruciating pain in his chest was joined by one even worse in his entire face as Melas' hand connected with the dreadlord's jaw.

"Aaaaaarrrrrgggghhh!" Diabolikos yelled - for the first time. Never before had he yelled. Period. He'd lost minor battles, but never this badly. Never this sorely. Never this painfully.

His jawbone dislocated at the left joint, snapping and tearing the ligaments in his temple along with it. The three blades of the gauntlet skewered his cheeks, lips and tongue, sending blood and teeth splattering in the air as Diabolikos felt a sudden rush of coldness on the left side of his neck. His tongue slapped against his Adam's apple in a way that felt entirely alien just at the same time that his jawbone dislocated on the other side, and his whole head rocked in that direction. The fact that his demonic constitution prevented him from being rendered unconscious outright only increased his suffering as his entire bottom jaw was _knocked right off of his head_.

His tongue hanging over his exposed wind pipe, Diabolikos felt his entire head sagging forward as he realized how much a lower jaw actually supported cranial stability. His lower jaw slammed into the freshly rejuvenated grass in the clearing, the very background mocking him as his domain in southern Felwood was returned to health by the bear druid's cursed magic. Diabolikos hit the ground, the slashes on his legs from when Melas had mauled him in bear form finally preventing him from getting back up this time. He dug his talons into the disgustingly springy, fresh grass that he'd once helped to corrupt, trying to drag his battered form away to regroup.

That's what he had to do...regroup. Plan. Devise. He was a nathrezim...this Kaldorei was nothing more than a mere mortal now, the blessing of their accursed dragon aspect lost to them. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen; he was supposed to retake such a small region. The mission he'd requested provided the perfect cover for indulging in his nine millennia long feud with Melas, and with more resources than he'd been granted previously. Every precaution had been taken, every advantage held within his talons...

...how did this happen?

The sound of fur boots against the grass caught up to him. "You can threaten me..." Melas growled in that irritating, flitty language also used by the satyrs. Before Diabolikos could react, the night elf punched him in the tricep, the blades causing his arm to give out.

He tried to speak, to tell the mortal that his efforts were in vain, but a lethargy entirely separate from Diabolikos' throat injury caused him to refrain from even trying.

"...but you can _not_ threaten my family!" The second growl was punctuated by another blow to the back of Diabolikos' skull. He felt the blades penetrate, finally ending his embarrassing loss and causing his incarnation to dissipate into a swarm of bats, leaving only a copy of his plate armor behind.

Slowly, he felt his consciousness sink away from that plane of existence. It wasn't the first time he'd been bested; indeed, even the cunning dreadlords knew what it felt like to lose their manifestations upon the mortal plane and then rematerialized in the Twisting Nether. In a matter of seconds, his soul was soaring on its own accord, granting him a view of the greenish yellow swirls that comprised the bands of energy connecting the various physical plains of existence.

Once his wits had returned to him in enough force for his essence to recognize the gasses and nebulae of the Great Dark Beyond, Diabolikos felt his anger seethe. His body reformed, moving almost without effort as the arcane currents propelled him toward Argus to regroup. Options flowed through his now lucid mind.

Returning to the nathrezim home world to recouperate was out of the question. As one of the bottom ranked among his kind, another loss to a mortal would ruin his reputation among his brothers; few were as conniving as a community of demon commanders whose very lifeblood was subterfuge. No, the Burning Legion's base of operations on Argus would provide him the opportunity he needed. There, he could make an entrance in the presence of lesser demons, more easily concocting a story about how he'd willingly teleported to recruit minions for his operation of retaking a small but strategic portion of the most dangerous world the Legion had encountered yet. Once the word had spread, he'd more easily be able to convince the other bottom rung dreadlords of his story; from there, he'd simply stop talking about it or drawing attention to it, leaving his higher ranking peers to appear to be the fools when they were found to be unaware of what was common knowledge.

Yes...this was the perfect plan. For even when dealing with his own kind, there always needed to be a plan.

As he felt his body exit the Nether and enter a normal teleportation state, he calmed his expression, prepared to wreak shock and awe upon throngs of easily impressed gan'arg and imps itching for a chance to follow a proper commander to their army's most detested enemies. But when he exited onto the surface of Argus and found he'd been expected, he realized that there were others in the Legion's ranks seeking to better their own positions.


	2. Cast Out

Diabolikos felt his body soar down toward Argus, still in a sort of stasis as his essence was freshly rematerialized from the Twisting Nether. The sensation of being slain by mortals and then resurrected again was unfortunately familiar to him, as was the almost instantaneous lucidity he always felt once he'd successfully exited that semi stasis. Experience had caused him to grow used to the transition.

When he found his descent slowing to a halt above the planet's surface, however, he really knew that something was wrong.

His vision cleared from the usual blur, right at the same moment that he felt the sensations of gravity on Argus, air in his lungs and hear on his skin. His wounds had all disappeared as he found his soul dwelling in what may as well have amounted to a new body, or a cloned one, leather breeches and a jerkin clothing him. The absence of his plate armor perplexed him as much as the sound of his hooves touching down on a platform composed of volcanic glass.

The Twisting Nether shimmered above them, casting light on multiple figures surrounding him and what appeared to be a large capsule. Imps formed a hexagram pattern at the edges of the platform, a flat disc floating a mile or so above the planet's surface due to some arcane enchantment. A trio of fel guards stood around him, the mere fact that their weapons weren't sheathed already inciting his rage. The fact that he'd been seen before he'd had the chance to conjure a new set of demonic armor stung his ego bitterly: whenever he was killed on the mortal plane and rematerialized, he preferred to don a new set of armor in private for the sake of appearances.

Seeking a means to blame the lesser demons for some infraction or another, his sense of cunning flipped through the possibilities in a matter of seconds.

Had they stationed the floating disc in his path by chance? Unlikely; the statistical possibility of their platform being suspended just in exactly the right place for it to intercept his return to Argus was slim to nil.

Had they stationed the floating disc in the atmosphere without authorization? Impossible; none of the Burning Legion's rank and file would dare to do such a thing, nor were they capable anyway.

If the platform hadn't been raised there by accident, and it hadn't been raised there without assistance, then what was the explanation?

"What trickery is this?" Diabolikos demanded, facing one of the two fel guards in his field of vision.

For all their physical prowess, the fel guards were still nothing more than shock troops and heavy infantry; the red demon was obligated to respond. "I'm not at liberty to respond," the lesser demon said flatly, its tone flat and its body unmoving at it continued to wield it's wicked fel blade.

Curiosity tempered Diabolikos' indignance as he pondered the notion of Legion infantry receiving orders to refuse answering the questions of a commander. Before he could so much as bare his fangs at the fel guard, a terse, decidedly unmelodious voice emitted from behind him.

"What you see is quite far from a trick, dreadlord."

Had Diabolikos possessed a single hair on his albino skinned body, it would have stood on end. Of all the other commanders within the Legion, there were few he'd prefer to fall into rivalry with even less. Not because she was necessarily so powerful, but because she never picked a fight unless her opponent was at a particularly low point in their demonic careers. Few were as opportunistic as the red skinned she devil behind him - and that statement, word for word, meant quite a bit coming from a vampiric being who fed on fear.

His sense of embarrassment returned, having been forgotten only temporarily. There he was, after having been slain yet again, forced to regroup and recouperate on their home base yet again, caught without his armor...for the first time. That part, he'd always managed to conceal.

To refuse to face her wouldn't preserve as much dignity as he'd lose were he to stand there, prone, as she besmirched his honor. Finding little recourse, Diabolikos turned around to face his ambusher. "Ah, Decarabia," he sighed haughtily, forcing himself to sound as if he was bored in an attempt to protect at least a shred of his self respect.

Donning her own set of demonic plate mail, the man'ari eredar appeared entirely unconvinced by his false confidence. After only a single exchange, Diabolikos had been out in the defensive, so soon after he'd suffered another loss that he felt his resolve demolished all over again. To know how his victims felt when he assaulted their minds with his fear magic gave him a new perspective on the power he held over weak targets. Strong ones, however, were a whole other issue.

Plain but well presented, Decarabia's hair and fingernails glowed with the same bright, fel green power as her eyes, leaving trails of magical essence as she moved. Based on the way she wasted no time, he knew that she had no intention of granting mercy out of respect for a colleague.

"You've become so used to losing that you let your guard down," she said bluntly, her speech bearing the sound of three different voices all talking at once. Her words cut into his flesh, stinging especially badly because he had no retort if he were to be honest - and the dry insults that were based on an element of truth were always the most damning...as he was then realizing. "I sensed the return of your essence before your consciousness had even reawakened."

Never one to laugh or mock, she forewent bruising his ego on the outside for skewering it on the inside. "And I'm here to see that your wastefulness is brought into check," she said, not a hint of opacity in her tone.

Trying to drag the uncharacteristically blunt eredar into a game of verbal chess, he attempted to belittle her efforts. "Wastefulness?" Diabolikos asked, driving as much incredulity into his voice as he possibly could, raising an eyebrow as if he'd heard the stupidest idea in intergalactic history. "You dragged your _pets_ ," he said while pointing toward her imps, "and several infantry to wait for Nether knows how long for my arrival? Are you being serious?"

"You're stalling," she replied in a voice without emotion, not even granting him the respect to dispute his scorn. "Just as you have been for ten millennia."

Internally, his sense of pride combated his sense of self preservation. Perhaps it was his occasional sacrifice of his survival instinct for the sake of his perceived dignity that prevented him from reaching the levels of cunning of his superiors. Diabolikos bit back in his anger, attempting to dismiss her hostility as beneath him and belittle her ambush attempt in the process.

"Where is Terrenor?" Diabolikos asked, referring to a similarly bottom ranking nathrezim who he almost actually trusted.

Given the conniving nature of their kind, groups of omegas would often band together not due to true loyalty, but for the sake of protection against betas. If he could reach his peer, he could possibly pretend to bear useful information about the accursed blue sphere known as Azeroth, thus raising both of their ranks in the eyes of others and covering his trail of failure.

His efforts were in vain, however. "Nobody is in a position to hear you other than I, right now," she replied just as bluntly, skipping even a passive aggressive emphasis on multiple syllables. "Nor will they be. It's about time you be relieved of your command...the retinue of rematerialized minions you keep throwing away deserve a better leader. And when news that the Azerothian microbes permanently destroyed your soul with apexis crystals reaches Mephistroth, I'll be prepared to fill in the role."

His brain calculating possibilities at five per second, Diabolikos tried to push down that sensation of fear as he realized that, were he to perish permanently, his retinue could theoretically be claimed by an eredar rather than another nathrezim. And the secret that the accursed inhabitants of both Azeroth and Outland could permanently destroy demons using apexis crystals was known to his and Decarabia's superiors. His plans for revenge and regrouping unraveled right in front of him, Diabolikos found himself struggling to think of a plan for the first time in tens of thousands of years.

Grasping for any straws he could find, he gave up on guile and tried to follow the blunt threats of the alien eredar he'd known had spent eons envying the well organized entourage granted to him by Mephistroth. "If you strike me down now, or a hundred times whenever I rematerialize, the bats my body dissipates into will eventually be seen; you'll eventually be discovered as one who slays her own colleagues."

His threat may as well have been slamming themselves against the volcanic glass of the platform. "Statistically unlikely, even if that were what I'd had planned." Catching him off guard specifically because of her _lack of_ subtlety, Decarabia held our her red hand and flicked her index finger from her thumb, sending waves of green energy emanating from her glowing fingernails.

Before Diabolikos could counterattack, Decarabia had used her telekinesis to fling him backward into the capsule, which he'd turned his back to. Two of the fel guards sealed the glass vessel, the imps bouncing around like little power kegs ready to blast both him and the fel guards to bits upon Decarabia's command. Her own fighting force was small, but highly coordinated and efficient. If she added his generous grant to it, she'd likely have secured both the south and north of Felwood by then. That notion hurt in particular.

Too prideful to bang on the glass, Diabolikos forced himself to stand up straight, his chin held high as he refused to beg or struggle against the inevitable. Decarabia began to weave a curse, her mere words sealing the effect on him for centuries to come.

"May your breath never end," she said in her triple voices. "May the vacuum of space or the depths of an ocean never cause you to suffocate."

His eyes widened as images of drifting through outer space without even the ability to die and return himself to the Nether paralyzed him. Too devastated to even swear revenge, he scolded himself internally for having failed to realize what her plan was despite his home world breeding a species that were supposed experts of planning. As the capsule's eredar designed boosters blasted off of the platform, he watched her red form shrink and disappear, followed by Argus shortly thereafter due to the construction of the boosters that provided for a push without an equal or opposite reaction to the vessel's movements. Resigning himself to his prison, he felt a new source of negativity other than fear as grief stung the dreadlord for the first time.


	3. Self Pity

Weeks dragged into months as Diabolikos laid inside of the glass vessel, his attempts to discover any internal controls long since given up due to constant failure. Denial could carry an intelligent being only so far, and even a dreadlord couldn't turn its deception on its own self. Dropping his arms aplomb at his sides, he stopped folding them over his chest defensively. Though the nathrezim rarely communicated in written form outside of their home world, he imagined that their dictionaries back there might print his picture under the definition of 'alone' were he ever to be discovered.

But he wouldn't be. Not out there in the vast nothingness of the Great Dark Beyond. Even as he could observe the universe around him, the sheer volume prevented him from contact with anything. Even asteroid belts that appeared dense from afar still features thousands of miles in between each floating rock when up close. At no point during however long he'd been lost had he encountered so much as a spec of soaring ice near the eredar rocket that imprisoned him.

The arcane powered crystals that propelled the vessel so fast no longer functioned. Having defied the laws of physics with their push that experienced no natural pushback, they'd already taken him out of the entire solar system of Argus, sending him into the empty spaces that filled in the gaps between the various solar systems of the galaxy. The power of the crystals faded, he simply drifted from the momentum of that initial push, the vessel floating within the laws of physics as they endlessly sailed in the zero gravity environment.

In the beginning, denial had been easy, and Diabolikos had spent days cursing Decarabia and scheming his eventual triumphant return to Argus to claim his minions back. When the unrealistic nature of such desires battered his ego beyond even Decarabia's razor sharp words, he'd turned to thinking of ways to reroute the vessel back to any planet controlled by the Legion. More times than he could count, he'd twisted and turned inside of the cramped little vessel, searching for any sort of button, latch or lever to manipulate the craft. Much to his chagrin, he'd realized that it literally was a flying prison; there wasn't so much as a knob to open the glass with. Decarabia had engineered it to only respond to an external command; he wouldn't be able to reroute the vessel unless he broke open the glass and ventured outside.

And unless he actually understood anything at all about engineering.

That's when the depression settled in. There was no denying it...Diabolikos was a dreadlord. For all their arrogance, the base reality was that his kind, even the higher ranking ones like Mephistroth, were akin infants: entirely dependent upon others.

A dreadlord didn't simply rain fire down onto their foes; most intensely disliked dirtying their talons in such a manner. They were much more keen on commanding legions of imps and beholders, or better yet manipulating mortal mages into performing that dirty work for them. A dreadlord didn't simply eviscerate the organs of an opponent; they had battalions of fel guards to fulfill such a purpose, or better yet, tricking mortal brutes into thinking that their comrades were living nightmares that needed to be bludgeoned to death.

And most striking of all, a dreadlord typically knew little of engineering; they had teams of gan'arg and mo'arg to handle that. Or, better yet, teams of crippled mortals with their skins flayed and their minds controlled into building their fel cannons for them. Nether...Diabolikos didn't even know how to operate a fel cannon by himself.

Wings that had once been held up proudly slumped with self pity. Ninety nine point nine nine nine percent of planets in the known universe were completely uninhabited; just barrens wastelands even without demonic invasions. Were his vessel to crash land on such a place, he'd have no idea on how to repair it, refuse it, reroute it, or even call for help. Cursed to breathe forever by Decarabia, he wouldn't even die from the vacuum; he'd just be stranded without anybody to command, any minds to control, any fear to feed off of. Of course, he knew full well that Decarabia was a terrible enchantress and that her curse would wear off eventually, but then what? Would he...just go back? After she'd likely spread rumor...no, the truth, about him?

Self loathing battering the formerly haughty dreadlord's mind, Diabolikos slumped to the bottom of the vessel. Even if the eredar decided to throw a few lies in to the mix, she wouldn't need to try that hard. His wastefulness would be his downfall; he'd known for thousands of years. His unbridled hatred focused on the various rivalries he maintained with the mortals on Azeroth, he'd turned his deception instead on his fellow demons. And once that was revealed...it would be all over if he couldn't formulate a plan to defame Decarabia's character.

But how could he? His options were limited. The nathrezim were a conniving people by nature; although there was a sacred code not to kill another nathrezim, they were still backstabbers and gossips on par with any warlock's succubus skulking in the back alley behind the Slaughtered Lamb. Over the millennia, Diabolikos had formed a number of alliances with other bottom ranking, omega dreadlord's as they sought to protect themselves from the wrath of their higher ranking brethren. Favors were granted and returned, slander was passed around behind closed doors, and subtle strikes against the various missions they were sent on took place. As his failures piled up more and more, Diabolikos had found himself relying on help from his peers more and more as his web of deceit became increasingly tangled. Then, as if to stick one hoof in the grave already, he'd committed an act he'd known beforehand would have a low likelihood of succeeding, relying on the...ugh... _goodwill_ of Terrenor, his fellow omega.

He'd sent a satyr to Terrenor's lair requesting that his peer destroy an outpost of druids in one of the sea caves in the northern coast of Moonglade, a direct order from Kil'jaeden as part of the eredar lord's regular raffle of random quests meant to select the most talented commanders for promotions. Diabolikos had sent half of his already generous granted entourage in that direction via a shortcut only for them to be slaughtered by a pact between tribes of furbolgs and dark trolls, leaving him empty handed. Rather than valuing their working relationship, Terrenor had claimed complete responsibility after slaughtering the druids, and even appropriated for his own grant of minions the same satyr messenger, who just happened to 'incidentally' mention Diabolikos' debacle to Decarabia via a portal. Half that specific wing of their galaxy had been informed within a fortnight. How foolish he'd been to even try to seek Terrenor's assistance when Decarabia had shown him the writing on the wall...

Months flown by, Diabolikos had taken to beating his own pride into a pulp. Every strand of his honor had been shred, every ounce of his dignity sapped, every iota of his self respect snowballing off of a cliff of despair as every façade he'd built up came crashing down at exponentially increasing speed, leaving him broken beyond repair. A dreadlord without his ego was truly a miserable being.

It was only when stars passed in front of his path into oblivion that Diabolikos noticed that he wasn't alone.

Pillars of nitrogen gas septillions of miles long decorated the landscape, condensing into planets as the densest clouds collapsed into gravitational pulls, contrasting to the columns of minerals from shattered planets drifting away from one another. There, in the middle of it all, was a planet one quarter the size of Argus radiating a power that the dreadlord couldn't quite put his talon on. Bumpy but roughly spherical, the planet featured sharp, narrow mountains like rods, burning a strange ivory color despite the dull violet shade of the planet's crust that almost looked grey. Lacking a sun to orbit, the planet barreled toward the vessel at what Diabolikos assumed to be over a half a million miles per second, still a relatively slow speed in the vastness of the Great Dark Beyond but speedy for a planet nonetheless.

In the center of those strange rods laid a crater, enormous and distracting due to the smaller rods that filled it. That Diabolikos could already discern such detail meant that the vessel would crash land shortly; if he was lucky, perhaps the impact would do the job that suffocation couldn't and finish his monotony.

And then...it happened.

The planet _moved_.

Twisting and contorting, the surface rippled like blubber, the material seamless and wrinkled rather than either brittle or gelatinous. The half of the planet that he couldn't see unfolded, pulling into long appendages that writhed and rotated like the movement of an octopus, almost dancing hypnotically. More of the dense gas emitted from the unseen side, propelling the planet toward the vessel even more quickly as the gap was rapidly closed.

The rods shifted with the blubbery skin, their sharpness far too prominent to be simple geological formations. The crater widened, revealing more of the teeth running all the way down the maw, and three gigantic eyes opened around the sides, in between the maw and the tentacles.

Diabolikos pinched himself, but to no avail. The vessel plummeted, bringing him into the grasp of an extraterrestrial Old God so large that it possessed its own gravitational pull.


	4. A Modest Proposal

Against a background that was literally the vastness of space, the cosmic forces of the universe played out, reminding Diabolikos of just how insignificant he, and even his uninvited host, were when compared to all of existence. Gamma rays vaporized an entire gas giant many hundreds of millions of light years away, and the solar flare of a nearby red dwarf incinerated the planets of a dozen nearby star systems. An entire galaxy collapsed in the distance, a black hole at the center sucking up countless planets in a millisecond as the singularity crushed all that said galaxy's denizens considered real.

All of it occurring at once, regardless of whether or not any beings mortal or immortal cared. Under that measure of belittlement, Diabolikos found himself thrusted into the atmosphere that had started to form around the non Azerothian Old God, his glass prison shattering from the unnatural manipulation of G forces when the descent was suddenly halted.

"Argh!" Diabolikos yelled, the flawed atmosphere failing to carry his voice behind a vague muffle he could hear in his ears.

Due to Decarabia's curse, the vacuum of space failed to depressurize his biological system, and even the absolute freeze of the emptiness felt as if it had been subdued. Unable to die or even feel that uncomfortable, he laid still as he floated in the Old God's weak gravity, no longer even possessing the will to fight for his life. Flapping his wings availed him nothing, and his former arrogance had already been melted away by months spent adrift. Stuck in the Old God'a orbit, Diabolikos could only stare at the atrocity and hope for a quick end.

The sheer size of the false deity couldn't be overstated. The dreadlord had floated above numerous planets previously, accompanying observation missions he'd been assigned as a means of distracting him from his old vendettas on Azeroth. To see an inanimate object of that mass was only impressive the first few dozen times; so see something that large that was _alive_ , and moving, was beyond description even for him. The blubber jiggled as the muscles beneath twitched, and one of the large eyes looked at him.

Strangely, the maw didn't open wider to swallow him. Rather, it became even smaller as the blubber around its edge twisted into what almost looked like a smile, albeit one on a circular face with no up and no down.

When the Old God assaulted his mind, Diabolikos found the mental interference even more invasive than the time that a Forsaken banshee had temporarily mind controlled him.

 _Greetings, Diabolikos_ , the Old God broadcast psychologically, the soundless voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Never had he witnessed anything similar before; not like this. A brief search into the vaults of his experience was cut short by the voice returning to him far, far more quickly than would be expected of such a vast intelligence.

 _No amount of pondering will avail you, no clever scheme will save you. You've been stalling for far too long..._

Ouch. Not only could it read into his thoughts, but also his insecurities.

Stripped bare and cornered across several months, Diabolikos found his survival instinct all but obliterated. "I request a fast death," he said into the vacuum, correctly guessing that the Old God would hear him. Any residual hope he might have clung to, however, was promptly dashed.

 _No_.

Beyond the point of any more self loathing due to begging, Diabolikos simply tried to haggle. "Then make it a painless one," he asked again.

The planetary being's maw continued to curl into a mollusk like smile, but otherwise conveyed no emotion. _No_ , came the psychological response.

"Then make it a painless one... _please_."

 _No_.

"Then-"

 _Silence_ , the Old God said, and the dreadlord complied for fear of incurring any more of its wrath. _Listen, and you may never need to die again_.

His mind assaulted for months by despair, Diabolikos willingly gave in, his psyche already prepared for the eventual meeting. When he held his tongue, the Old God deemed it appropriate to continue.

 _For quite some time I've waited for this moment...the perfect opportunity for a greater evil to be born_.

Despite his miserable state, Diabolikos still retained enough of his wits about him to know that such an opportunity shouldn't even exist. The Void Lords, the sworn enemies of Sargeras and the Burning Legion, had created the Old Gods and promptly found the atrocities to surpass them in power. And while their power was unmatched, there was simply no way for their communication to reach so far; this being seemed to know him. Unless...

"Who are you?" the dreadlord asked, so awestruck by the horrifying possibilities that he went into system shock, his fear actually leaving him as his nerves went numb.

Those blubbery mounds that amounted to lips ringing the toothy maw curled into a mollusk's smile again.

 _All that you need to know is that I am the one who hears; Rhiza'phasj, in the language of my kind. You may call me 'Rhizopas' for ease of pronunciation. And if you understand the nature of my five kin on Azeroth, then you should know that my power is an order of magnitude beyond theirs as demonstrated by the mere fact that I can hear that far_.

Easily pushed beyond resistance, Diabolikos actually felt a measure of joy. If a being that surpassed even the Old Gods of Azeroth was treating him with a measure of decency, then there might be hope for him yet.

But wait...five Old Gods imprisoned on Azeroth? There were-

 _Four Old Gods that mortals and demons know of; the fifth is imprisoned but hidden. And by the way, there is not an inkling within your soul that I can't detect. Bear that in mind if you ever consider questioning your savior again. Yes. Your savior. I detected that suspicion you felt for one fifth of a millisecond just now_.

His obedience more than earned, Diabolikos still found himself resenting Rhizopas less than than his fellow nathrezim. "Understood...but what is your purpose? Why did you intercept me?"

The planet sized Old God minced no words.

 _Eons ago, I destroyed the world that the Void Lords had seeded me upon. Though I did devour a good number of Titans in the process, that planet's titan world soul escaped my tentacles...but that's another story. The point is...I hunger. For far too long, I've been without any mayhem or suffering to sate my appetite. For far too long, I've been unable to sow the seeds of doubt and discord among the lesser beings of the universe. Without a solid surface to dwell on, creating more Faceless minions is moot; I am the one who hears, but not the one who is particularly fast_.

"So you want me to function as your...your...agent? Your deputy? Your forward commander for the domination of Azeroth?" Diabolikos asked, working hard not to think about his fatigue from being used as a puppet either by Mephistroth, or Kil'jaeden, or any other host of detested masters.

An odd, vulgar sound rang inside of his mind, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the peculiar sound of an Old God laughing.

 _No...oh my, no. It has been millions of years since I've been surprised by such humor. Yes, I'll certainly want to keep you around_ , Rhizopas replied, nearly pushing Diabolikos to the brink of resentful thoughts again. _No, my plans are on a much wider scale than that. You are to be my forward commander for the domination...of Argus_.

"Impossible!"

 _You are to split the ranks of the Burning Legion, to sunder their unity, to decentralize their control_.

"It can't be done!"

 _You are to completely dismantle what mortals and demons alike enjoy deluding themselves into thinking is the most devastating force of nature the universe has ever seen_.

"This is madness!"

 _Yes..._ Rhizopas purred, deriving a large amount of pleasure from shocking a being so weak compared to himself. _Use your reason. Think of the words of Krasus, the, what are they calling themselves now...secret red dragon mage observer_.

Confusion pulled the dreadlord's hairless brow up into an arc. "Krasus? The...what does a dragon have to do with any of this?"

One of the three eyes ringing the side of the Old God's mollusk body blinked, the simple act pushing Diabolikos hundreds of miles backward into space. One of the enormous tentacles formed a blubbery wall to pull him back across a blasted period of **three fucking hours** , bringing him in to the Old God's weak atmosphere again and continuing the conversation where they'd left off as if nothing had happened.

 _Use your reason. I've heard his words, and I'm well aware that the Legion's leadership has as well. Sargeras is more powerful than the entirety of the Burning Legion combined. And all five of the Old Gods on Azeroth are chained, having required the entirety of the unified Titan Pantheon merely to cast sleep spells and chain my disunited kin. And were even a single one of those kin of mine to escape their prisons_...

Reality dawned on Diabolikos, and he started to realize just how vast a power he was speaking to. "...then Sargeras himself, more powerful than all the might of the Legion, would beg for the mercy of death," he replied, quoting the infamous red dragon chronicler whose words had shocked the dragonflights so much.

 _And yet you also know that I am an order of magnitude greater than my kin...I'm not the strongest of our kind, but strong enough to take all of Argus as my playground_.

Before his suspicion could take over his mind, the dreadlord spoke, not wanting to offend such a being. "Then why choose Argus? And why choose me?"

 _Number one, I wish not to encroach on my kin's territory. N'zoth, Yogg Saron, C'thun...they waged war on each other for tens of millions of years just for the fun of it. They have a lot of growing up left to do until they mature. Number two, I'm in need of the perfect agent to enact my plan for accepting the greatest challenge that the Void Lords have set out for me in quite a long time. Not anyone will do...and I've waited so long for your quandary to increase in severity such that you'd be ripe_.

Finally losing his composure, Diabolikos let his jaw drop open upon being compared to a fruit. To his indredible, incredible good luck, Rhizopas once again found his reaction to be comical, filling the dreadlord's head with that bizarre, silent laughter.

"What does that even mean!"

 _Use your reason_ , Rhizopas repeated. _More so than any other of your kind, your heretofore unsuccessful career has led to an intricate series of responsibility dodging, blame shifting, favor begging, resource borrowing and rumor spreading. Even other dreadlords consider you shifty and untrustworthy, and your name has become synonymous with incompetence. Don't make that face, you aren't actually surprised to hear this. You're a slave to the Legion, a being created to manipulate yet instead being wielded like a tool to destroy, as Sargeras tries to prevent the inevitable reign of the Void._

 _You bear no loyalty to anyone anymore; you seek only to better yourself with as little input as possible. The only problem is, you've been doing it all wrong. You were without guidance due to the perception that eventually, one day, Sargeras will reign. Well, Diaboliks..._ _ **I**_ _am here to provide you that guidance, as well as a betterment beyond what you can achieve on your own, trapped in a dead end job working for Mephistroth and taking pot shots at Decarabia_.

Though Rhizopas didn't seem to enjoy pauses, he seemed to stop talking for an awfully long time, as if waiting for a reaction. His ego shattered anyway, the dreadlord didn't conceal his interest.

"What if my superiors discover what you're having me do?"

 _They won't; I'll assault their minds on a much deeper level than the simple pushing it took me to trick you into take the steps that led you to me_.

"What if I refuse your offer?"

 _Then I'll teleport you to the middle of Thunderbluff on a sunny day and leave you to explain your way out of that to Decarabia once you rematerialize on Argus after the tauren hit you so hard that you die twice. And then you won't hear from me until I come to Argus myself. By the way, she took your promotion, and your minions, and for a period you'll have to pretend that you answer to her_.

Diabolikos pressed his lips into such a hard line that they went numb, at first annoyed and then humbled into obedience when Rhizopas refused to prove his mind and forced him to ask the final question out loud.

"How do I know that you won't destroy me, too?"

 _I'm not so foolish as to throw you away when this is all done, provided you and prove your worth. But, if you require convincing...then you don't truly know if you can trust me. All you know is that I'll teleport you back to Azeroth shortly. You make the choice either to return as a loser and end up transmogrified into an imp - and your fellow nathrezim won't prevent Decarabia from doing so at this point - or to return as the commander of the inheritor entity to the Burning Legion, albeit covertly at first_.

As if the cosmos wished to punctuate the point, a cloud of gas that had broken off of the pillars septillions of miles wide collapsed at that moment, the gradual collecting of nitrogen and other gasses finally drifting beyond critical mass and shrinking into the spherical beginnings of a newborn planet in a matter of seconds rather than billions of years. Laws of physics were once again defied, to which the universe said 'fuck logic,' once again reminding Diabolikos of how little he mattered in the grand scheme of things, and how much of an honor it was to even evolve from microbes lucky enough to spawn on rocks carrying sufficient oxygen, rather than remaining as scattered clumps of chemical elements destined to never comprise a DNA strand.

 _Make your choice_.


	5. Ready for Retribution

Far off in the distance, an entire galaxy rotated like a cone tethered by its point, swiveling around and moved by an unseen force that didn't disrupt the steady rotation of all the star systems therein. A strange comet passed in front of a glob of plasma ten times as wide as Rhizopas, suddenly disappearing not use, down or further away, but rather along the Z axis, moving until it disappeared into a direction that Diabolikos didn't understand and would never be able to describe or draw accurately. The cold loneliness of the Great Dark Beyond neither beckoned nor cautioned, merely existing as civilizations with eons of star travel were wiped out and forgotten by historical accidents.

And there he was, being asked to make a decision that was beyond what he could even imagine for his superiors in their most bizarre, drug induced dreams, much less a fallen, ruined omega like himself.

 _Make your choice_.

"To kill Sargeras...the Dark Titan...my lord..."

 _He is nothing to you. He slaughtered demons in droves, and then took control of your people in order to serve his purpose of destroying all of creation. That includes your home world. He is but a dictator over you_.

"Yet acceptance of your offer necessitates the slaying of my fellow dreadlords, which we've all sworn a blood oath never to do."

 _You resent your brethren. Don't lie to me or to yourself_.

Realizing that he was stalling again, Diabolikos frowned at himself, wondering how many times his indecision had led to his failures. "If I accept...then I'll have the power to exact revenge upon my enemies?" he asked, hope inexplicably crawling back up from the rock bottom of his demonic soul.

 _Among the Burning Legion. Do not lose sight of your long term goal...your petty feuds with mortals must come to an end if you're to serve as the commander of my forces. Even Melas Bowleaf. Even Hecate Moltenfist_."

"That iron dwarf bolo punched me in the groin!"

 _Leave her, and the elf. Don't approach them, don't seize any opportunity that presents itself, and_ _ **don't even think**_ _about antagonizing them mentally. Especially the dwarf. Shaurug, the minion of the fifth Old God on Azeroth that I won't tell you about, owes a debt to that mortal which even the Faceless are bound to uphold; harass her, and you'll turn my kin against your operation_.

Cursing Shaw as well as his mortal enemies, Diabolikos felt his hope weaken again. "Then...what must I do? I'm used to invading Azeroth from Argus, not the other way around," he sighed.

 _I'm employing a dreadlord precisely because such tactics and strategizing is what you all do. In your case, strategizing on how to behave irresponsibly is key. You'll arrive on Azeroth in a safe place. I'll rarely contact you. The most important thing you need to know is that you must amplify your erratic behavior that you mask so well under the guise of intricate strategy rather than buffoonery - stop making that face. Focus. You must consume as many of the Legion's vital resources as possible, back bite and character assassinate like there's no tomorrow...make every mistake you've been repeating for the past ten thousand years, but more. And worse. And bury it all under an even deeper conspiracy. If you tell the truth about anything in your daily life, then you're doing it wrong._

 _Leave no allies among your fellow demons in your wake...by the time I make my landfall on Argus and disrupt its entire gravitational pull and magnetic field - you'll be transported with my army to a safe place, of course - I want the entire Legion turning on itself_.

Feeling his head buzz, Diabolikos took a few minutes to comprehend what he was being tasked to do. "This...will be at least a thousand year job," he replied wearily, rubbing a hand over his bald scalp.

 _Don't rush. After all...this is about the joyride along the way, not the destination_ , the Old God laughed in that bizarre manner again. _I can already read the acceptance in your mind. Are you ready to begin the teleportation_?

"I...well...yes. It..." Diabolikos hesitated one last time before gritting his teeth in frustration at his habit. That was a behavior he'd need to cultivate in front of his demonic peers; not a being which, however untrustworthy, at least offered an option other than becoming one of Decrabia's pets. "...I'm ready...oh one who hears."

 _Excellent_.

A rumble echoed so loudly that it even reached the dreadlord's ears through the weak atmosphere collecting around its body. That previously smiling maw opened up, the teeth that were a hundred miles long splaying outward as a vortex of vespene gas swirled down into its belly. Like a whirlpool in space, the vortex yanked Diabolikos down as the Old God quite literally ate him.

Diabolikos yelled in temporary agony as his skin was flayed, followed by his muscles being ripped from his bones and the cartilage and ivory being pulled apart without tears. His eyes were pulled back through their sockets and pushed out a hole in his skull alongside his unraveled brain, the Old God's powers preserving his central nervous system in floating tendrils as he watched every organ floating next to his unfurled intestines. Strange spores clung to his insides, coating them in a film of fungus that burrowed in to the nucleus of each individual cell before his entire being was put back together again, every piece of him intact right down to his restitched leathers.

 _Not even the Watchers and their technology will detect these spores...the Legion will be none the wiser that I've marked you to all minions of my kind. Should you be killed, they shall remain when your body rematerializes in the Twisting Nether, forever bound to your RNA. Just as I charge you with your unholy task, so I protect you from becoming collateral damage. A gift...which you've never known from Sargeras_.

The bile of the Old God's digestive system passed over Diabolikos harmlessly, soon ending his body horror as he found himself passing out the other side of Rhizopas. A second opening, smaller and with shorter teeth, spat him out from the center of the tentacles at what appeared to be the being's bottom. More of the thick vespene gas emitted from the opening, just as it had when Rhizopas had first propelled himself closer toward the now destroyed glass prison.

That gas traveled far beyond the speed of light, almost to the point where it was more efficient than teleportation. Diabolikos folded himself into a ball, wrapping his wings around himself as his lips flew open to reveal his teeth as if he was in a wind tunnel. So fast did his body travel across a three week span that he passed straight through solid objects in his way, his molecules almost phasing out as photons existing in two places at once. Unimpeded by matter or energy, he watched as countless other galaxies passed by in the distance like houses on a wagon ride down a village road. He reached the solar system of Azeroth so fast that he didn't even have time to realize where he was before he passed straight through the ground somewhere in the Blasted Lands, the teleportation stopping on a dime. Diabolikos stumbled casually, disoriented as he found himself transported from months adrift in outer space to...somewhere else.

So fast had he landed that it took a moment before he heard the sound barrier break above the surface, delayed after he'd entered the atmosphere at such a high velocity.

"Where am I?" he asked out loud when he found himself able to sit up again, his eyes scanning the Titan architecture of the stone chamber around him.

On cue, Rhizopas had already prepared an answer, once again demonstrating his power; it was far beyond Argus, whereas its kin on Azeroth were restricted to planetary communication only.

 _A simple storage chamber prepared by the Titans. It's of no special importance to them, and is unknown to all else. That also makes it the last place your peers would assume you to be. Yes, despite the speed at which you arrived, I did send you there intentionally_.

"That's...surprising accuracy considering the fact that you spat me out through your second mouth," the dreadlord replied, testing out his dry wit after so much time spent being the butt of jokes.

 _That was my anus_.

"What!?"

 _Focus. Learn your surroundings. You'll need to set up camp here while you fabricate a complicated enough story to conceal your loss at Felwood_.

The cavernous room was spacious and relatively undamaged, though empty save from stone columns, stone furniture, and a portal ostensibly leading to the surface. Diabolikos frowned, knowing that while Rhizopas could hear his thoughts, the Old God couldn't see his expressions. Even after having lost everything, the drab nature of his surroundings weighed heavily on his shoulders. He was used to a healthily sized entourage of minions and attendants, resources to command, territory to corrupt...this cavern was just lonely and monotonous. It entirely lacked the diabolical pomp he was used to, making him feel like an overthrown monarch reduced to a commoner whose status had been reduced.

 _Then build your empire_ , Rhizopas said silently, already tracking his commander's thoughts. _Undertake your task. Lie, deceive, manipulate...gather the respectable domain you feel you deserve. But first thing's first_...

"I must ruin Decarabia's reputation, starting by making a grand entrance at the Dark Portal just to show our peers that I'm not dead, that I wasn't killed by mortals wielding apexis crystals, and that I've not vacated my grant for the Felwood operation. She'll look like a liar - a very poor, unskilled liar."

 _This is why I chose you...five minutes back on the planet, and you're already plotting how you'll turn the Legion on itself. So, for now...do what you do best. Consume, disrupt, even aid mortals if you must; as long as the forces under the sway of Argus are in disarray, you're on the right track. Just stay away from your past vendettas...they were your handicap_.

Gritting his teeth and bearing his fangs, Diabolikos forced himself to think happy thoughts and suffice his old grudges by simply kicking over a statuette of Aman'Thul. "You have my word...but I trust that I'll be able to rely on the occasional assistance from your end."

 _Count on it...Old God minions will recognize you. Be smart; don't mingle with them where you can be seen. Aside from that, you'll rarely hear from me directly. Pace yourself as you cause problems...in the meantime, I need to deal with a certain planet closer to my current position. Its inhabitants constantly beam radio signals into space in hopes of contacting alien life forms. Those signals often include these horrible recordings of what they call music. It's annoying as hell_.

"They sound like soft, easy targets."

 _Except they know how to split atoms. That won't prevent the inevitable, but it will sting a slight bit. Some hellhole called Earth...anyway. Do what you do best. Only return to your current location when you need to communicate with those who recognize my mark on you. I'll check to see how you're progressing in about half a century. Have fun_...

Just like that, the communication ended. Diabolikos walked among the columns for a good deal of time, inspecting every inch of the place for possible hiding spots of rogues. He was totally alone, and the place was empty, which was partially explained by the fact that the portal leading out had clearly been coated in a similar fungus to the one that had bonded to his RNA. More likely than not, no mortals, Titans, or even other demons would be able to pass through, but since the block was genetic rather than magical, it would be nearly impossible to detect. Nearly.

His fueds...he hated to give up on them, but he'd already prepared himself to do so when drifting for months in space. Even if he was back on Azeroth, he could just as easily be back in that glass prison. If he had to allow that blasted druid to have the last laugh, then so be it; by the time Rhizopas contacted him next, most of those mortals will have died anyway. And at least he'd have a chance to hit back at Decarabia, and to hatch a plot that would lead to Terrenor asking _him_ for favors again.

The most sly of smirks peeled across the dreadlord's mouth. Up until a few hours ago, he'd been humiliated to the point of repentance, even struggling against the accursed feelings of remorse for his misdeeds. Marching with purpose, he stepped through the portal, feeling the pores of his skin tingle as his cells shifted, and then emerged in a high mountain valley among the red rocks of the Blasted Lands. The entrance to his lair shimmered and then disappeared, entirely invisible to all but him. Off in the distance, he could just barely see the top of the Dark Portal poking over the horizon, beckoning him to enact his plots. True, his current lord was far more evil than even Sargeras, the Dark Titan who actually thought of himself as a hero saving the galaxy from the Void...

...but wasn't that the point. After all...wasn't a proper super villain supposed to choose the greater of the two evils?

"They'll pay," Diabolikos cackled, his maniacal laughter bouncing off of every mountainside. He flew toward the Portal with purpose, a hundred and one schemes flashing through his mind. "They'll all pay!"

* * *

 **A/N: that was fun as hell to write. It was short, maybe even a prologue for something later, maybe not, but I loved the process every step of the way. I can only hope that you all derived some entertainment from reading it.**

 **Obviously, I bent some issues in canon lore; anyone familiar with Old Gods will notice. But that's okay, because this is fan written fiction about original characters. Plus, Blizzard itself is already so internally inconsistent with its own product that the canon doesn't make much sense anyway. Thank you all so much for reading!**


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